


Want You to Know

by StarshipDancer



Category: A Very Potter Musical, AVPM - Fandom, Starkid
Genre: M/M, Quirrellmort - Freeform, Quirrelmort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 09:56:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3932488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarshipDancer/pseuds/StarshipDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voldemort is having guilty thoughts about abandoning Quirrell in Azkaban.  With references to Brian Rosenthal's song to Joe Walker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Want You to Know

Voldemort sometimes wondered if his guilt would eat him alive. He'd never been one to feel remorse over anything—and Wizard God knew he'd done enough shitty things to feel sorry about since he's been trying to kill Harry Potter and take over the world. None of that ever made him feel all that bad, but this? Whenever he thought about it, the former Dark Lord couldn't help but beat himself up. It wasn't like he could just stop the vile thoughts permeating his brain, either. Not when the reason for his guilt slept right beside him every night.

The ex-Dark Lord had no complaints about the life he led with Quirinus Quirrell (not even the man's complete disregard for clothes hampers and tidiness in general). The professor had given up everything for him, cared about him, and what had Voldemort done in return? Betrayed him and sent him to Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit.

Quirrell never showed signs of blaming him, which kind of made Voldemort feel worse. All Quirrell cared about were his smelly flowers (at least they made him happy, even if they took away from his quality time with Voldemort), teaching again, and Voldemort. He definitely cared too much about Voldemort for what he had put Quirrell through. Quirrell should hate him! But no, Quirrell practically breathed adoration for a man who had stood by and watched one of his Death Eater use the Cruciatus Curse on him.

Most of the time, Voldemort didn't think about all those reasons why he should hate himself. Only at night, when Quirrell's sleeping form twitched restlessly against his back. Nightmares, Voldemort knew, about Azkaban and Bellatrix cursing him. Then one night, quite possibly the worse night, Quirrell whispered three words that would haunt Voldemort if he didn't do something about them.

Don't leave me.

"Quirrell... Quirrell, wake up!"

The former professor woke with a start, gasping before he realized where he was. Then he groaned. "What is it, Voldemort? I promise I'll put those robes away in the morning…"

"Robes!? You've left your clothes out again!?" Voldemort's eyes narrowed at the chair that would smell like dirty clothes in the morning. Then, shaking his head, he rolled over to address the more severe problem at hand. "Squirrel, turn to face me."

Bewildered, Quirrell listened, but Voldemort found it much more difficult once he was face to face with the source of his guilt. One look at his partner, and he could tell that he hadn't been sleeping well at all, and the foreign emotions in his once frozen heart swelled even more. "Well, uh…you see…" You're the Dark Lord, not some simpering schoolgirl! Man up, Voldemort!

"Listen, man, I just wanted to, you know…apologize for—"

"Oh, not this again!" Quirrell rolled his eyes. "I already told you. It's not a big deal."

"Well obviously it is a big deal! You're still having nightmares!"

"I'll make a potion or something to help me sleep tomorrow. Just let this go, Voldemort. Please?" Oh, now Quirrell was just playing dirty! He knew Voldemort could never resist him when he did that! The high pitch to his voice, the big eyes—since when did Voldemort develop such a weakness?

"Just hear me out a minute, okay? It's my fault you went through all that shit—no, shut up, it is—and I hate myself for it, man! The sooner we can both accept that, the better. I don't know why the hell you don't hate me. I'd hate me if I were you, but you don't, and I'm grateful, Squirrel. Really grateful. But you can't keep going on like it never happened. I abandoned you." Up until this point, Quirrell had been glaring at some random thing behind Voldemort (probably the dirty robes and wondering why he didn't put them away before), but his eyes suddenly widened hearing the Dark Lord's deliberate statement.

"Yeah, you know it's true. I put ruling the world and killing a twelve-year-old over what I had with you. I left you to rot in that damn prison, and a part of me was missing until I came back. I can't make excuses, except that I was a selfish bastard, and I'm sorry. And I want you to know… Quirrell, I'm yours forever. I'll stay by your side."

Voldemort finished it all in one breath and found he couldn't really look at Quirrell. An irrational fear bubbled in him that maybe Quirrell wouldn't want to stick around him once he'd brought that all out into the open again. One look at his partner dispelled that fear, for Quirrell was smiling that warm little grin that Voldemort liked to think was reserved for him (after all, he didn't even look at those damn flowers like that).

Next thing, Quirrell was snuggling up to the Dark Lord as though the heavy conversation had never happened, and Voldemort had never bared what little was left of his soul. Quirrell nuzzled his face into Voldemort's chest, sighing contentedly. "I know we both like the other position, but maybe this will help with the nightmares? I don't really want to start taking a potion. Those can get addictive."

"Yeah." Voldemort wrapped his arms around Quirrell tentatively, his lips curling up just the faintest. He needed clarification. "So, uh…we good?"

"Wonderful…" Quirrell mumbled groggily against his skin, nearly asleep already. Voldemort couldn't believe the man he loved. He bent down to press a soft kiss to Quirrell's forehead, tucking his partner close to him as he let drowsiness overcome him as well.

"Oh, and Squirrel? You're taking care of those robes first thing in the morning."

All would get in response was a noncommittal grumble.


End file.
